


Beyond the Seas

by RushingWaters



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Femdom, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild S&M, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22571146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RushingWaters/pseuds/RushingWaters
Summary: He didn’t used to be like this. There used to be a time, not so long ago, when pain was pain and pleasure was just pleasure, and he did not have to struggle to distinguish between the two. When nights did not hold the threat of dreams and each day was coloured, more meaningful, instead of stretching into a long line of dusty haze.Inspired bysimplecoffee's Darkest Night 2019 prompt
Relationships: Charlotte "Charlie" Blackwood/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Comments: 34
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

He dreams of the fall again, that night.

Gravity clutches at them as his body swoops weightless, pulling the tomcat down and down, eighteen hundred kilos of fire and aluminum plunging towards the sea in a hopeless spiral. There’s nothing but them up there, nothing but falling and panic and _fear_. The cockpit shakes with the rattle of futile engines, the vibrations drowning out all coherent thoughts to echo deep in their very bones, and it confines them, a place of once-glorious freedom twisted into a coffin by some kind of cruel irony. He’s pinned against the front windshield, barely able to breathe from the sheer pressure, he tries to look back but is helpless, he can’t reach the ejection—

“Goose!” he screams— and isn’t it strange that he’s relieved by knowing that there’s someone he could still scream _to_ , even in a time like this? “You can’t—the canopy, you won’t—”

The warning words are snatched out of his mouth by thin, whipping wind. Suddenly there is open air rushing all around him, the snap of taut fabric, the quick, swooping drop of a clean fall. He tilts his head back, almost lazily, and watches the bright chutes drift inwards like oversized flowers furling against the light sky.

Then the waves swallow him with a sound like a gentle sigh, and he is pulled down, down, down into the cold black waters, together with the corpse in his arms. 

* * *

Maverick jerks awake with a start, chest aching with too-fast heartbeats as he struggles to draw breath through the phantom liquid filling up his lungs. The room is illuminated a dim, warm yellow, filled with familiar feminine scent; Charlie is reading quietly on her side of the bed, leaning against the headboard. The pages of her book make a pleasant rustling sound as she flips them. 

He reaches out without thinking. Smooth silk slip through his fingers, cool and fluid like the waves, hiding the warmth of the skin underneath. He shudders at the sensation. 

Charlie turns to him, features momentarily indistinguishable against the backlight. “Nightmares again?”

“Mmh.” Maverick doesn’t bother with an answer, doesn’t yet trust his voice enough to speak, just rolls over and reaches for her wrist again, tugging until she gives in and puts away the book. Then he tugs _again,_ like an irksome toddler, just for the sake of the contact and to see Charlie huff in annoyance. 

“’S cold,” he mutters. It feels as if part of him is still held in the icy grip of the Pacific. He knows that in a way, he’ll never be free from it. 

“No it’s not. Wh—” 

She cuts herself off. By now she knows better than to ask, because while his nightmares may be frequent, they are all sadly lacking in variation of the five w’s: they all share the same morbid content and ending; the only notable differences seem to occur in the ‘who’ part of the equation, and even that’s limited to an embarrassingly narrow range of two or three people (Charlie once theorized it’s because Maverick doesn’t have many friends). She settles with a frown instead. “You do know that’s all in your head, right? The past’s done and over. You need to stop keep—”

She’s cut off again, by Maverick’s lips this time, and the noise she makes is halfway between exasperation and fondness. Maverick presses into her, shaking and desperate for the heat of living body, but she shoves him back forcefully onto the bed, eyes alight with a gleam that’s dangerous but not quite anger.

“So this is what you’re going for again, huh,” she breathes out, leaning over him on one arm, golden curls falling to frame them both. “Maverick, you have to learn to move on.”

He flinches, and tries to pretend that he did not. “You can move on me,” he says, reaching out; the scarlet silks of her lapel are already halfway open, exposing a glimpse of creamy breast. He slides his hand inside, and she gasped a little before knocking it away sharply. 

“No hands,” she growls, voice already thick with growing desire, and _oh_ that’s a favourite rule of hers, but Maverick has never been good at following the rules, and he’s impatient and cold and _needs_ this, so he goes for it anyway, a hand finding purchase on the back of Charlie’s neck and trying to pull her down to him, the other tearing blindly at her gown. Charlie shoves him away again, hissing; she leans away for a moment, then Maverick hears the sweet, dangerous jingling of a belt being dragged out from its loops. Heat flushes below his navel; his stomach gives an involuntary twist. 

Maverick closes his eyes. Unbidden, he flips over to lie facedown under Charlie’s hand, pressing a wrist to his mouth, and waits in silence for the pain that would sear the rest of the cold and everything else away. 

He didn’t used to be like this. There used to be a time, not so long ago, when pain was pain and pleasure was just pleasure, and he did not have to struggle to distinguish between the two. When nights did not hold the threat of dreams and each day was coloured, more meaningful, instead of all stretching into a long line of dusty haze.

He likes to think that he’d gotten over it, the thing with Goose. And he _had_ : he’d performed spectacularly in the Layton rescue, could look at Carol and Bradley without having a breakdown, could hold conversations with people without fighting the urge to punch their brains out, could actually go about his day acting relatively _normal_ without drowning himself in the endless spiral of _what if_ ’s and _could have done_ ’s— but even he isn’t stupid enough to believe in his own lie, not when it had been he who was piloting that plane and now he’s alive and Goose isn’t. He knows that he’ll always have to make up for that, somehow. And some part of him will always protest at the thought, despite Goose being his best friend, sometimes it’s all he could do to stop himself from screaming _not fair not fair it’s not my fault_ at the top of his lungs—

One night, sometime in early September, they slept together for the first time since the accident. His heart wasn’t really in it— it hadn’t been in anything other than flying for some time, and even for that just barely. He tried his best to please her, leaving it to his body to have the right reactions and the rest for her to take charge, the way she always liked, but the passion just wasn’t there and she knew it even as she was riding him off, and she was angry, rightfully so, because it had been _months_ and he should learn to deal with losses in life like a grown man and _I gave up Washington for you, can’t you at least care?_ In hindsight the subsequent slap probably shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, and it was hardly the first slap he’d gotten from a woman, but when it came it had been bright and real, more real than anything he had been able to feel in a long time, and _oh fuck_ —

It wasn’t just the blow that made him see stars.

Charlie had looked, with agonizing slowness, between the mark blossoming on his cheek and the wetness running down her thigh, and pieced together the puzzles of his desire while he was still frozen in shock and shame. The surprise in her eyes had quickly been replaced by dawning realization, and then laughter, excitement even, and _why didn’t you tell me if this was what you wanted, Maverick_ , and he had been so afraid, so _relieved_ at her easy acceptance that he did not think to contest her words, that no, this was not what he wanted, this was wrong and he was messed up and scared and just want things to go back the way it had been before— but then he would only be deluding himself, because the pain had been so real and sharp and even at the thought he was stiffening again, and those things never lie, right? So he learned to want, to exchange pain for pleasure until the two intermingled and he could no longer tell which is which, and later, to lose himself in its blissful oblivion, to escape, to forget. 

He wondered if this was to be his life— if this was atonement— and somewhere behind all the bitterness, a small ugly part of him was glad that he would not have to do it alone.

But now, much later, as he lies in the moonlit shadows of Charlie’s bed, after the burning of the pain has faded into long stripes of raw throbbing ache, the cold of his dream creeps back into his bones, reawakening the briefly-forgotten memories. Charlie is sleeping quietly beside him, the soft curve of her throat pale in the night; he tries to curl up to her comforting warmth, but she squirms and shifts from his embrace with a noise of protest.

“You’re warm,” he says, as if it’s an explanation.

“Again— for God’s sake, Mav, get over yourself.” She draws her hair to the side and turns away, shoving irritably at the sheets. “You’re such high maintenance sometimes, I swear… It’s not even winter yet...”

He stills at her words. Slowly he withdraws his arms, unconsciously turning inwards until he is clenching at his own dog tags. The edges of the bound metal bite into his palm like flesh between teeth.

After a while there is a sigh. Charlie reaches back and strokes him once, briefly, over a bare hip. Her eyes do not open and he winces as her fingers graze across one of the angrier welts there, but his mind lingers on the contact nevertheless, missing it long after its end. “Go get another quilt from the closet,” she murmurs. “You’re not cold.”

“Yeah,” he says, without any real intention of moving, and it’s a neutral enough word, able to pass as either _yeah you’re right_ or _yeah I am_ , and Charlie settles back, appeased. Maverick shifts a little too, eventually— he would have liked to look up at the ceiling, but lying flat hurts and too much moving is still uncomfortable, so he settles instead for just turning his head on the pillows and burrowing as deep as possible into the sheets that he has. The large windows on the side of the room opens to a beautiful view of the green-and-gold forests bordering the Miranda Reservoir during the day; as he lies there, staring at the drawn white curtains to the distant lake beyond the treeline, he imagines the salty waters churning in dark, cold waves.


	2. Chapter 2

He arrives at Top Gun a full fifteen minutes early the following morning, a refreshing improvement to his usual tardiness. While Charlie is not exactly secretive about their relationship, she does insist that they keep everything to a minimum while on base and keep their entries and exits separate in order to minimize gossip. (Workplace romances never look good, she’d said, much less in the military— it’s just until they could get public engagement. He’d tried not to cringe at the concept.) So he’s prodded awake at the ungodly hour of eight-fifteen, to the sight of breakfast already cooked and makeup already done—God how do women _do_ these things—and ushered out the door by half-past, clearing the oh-nine hundred deadline with ample time to spare. This is one of the perks of being an instructor—the students have to haul ass out of bed at seven for fitness— but it’s by far not the best. For all his pride, he admits that choosing to stay at Top Gun had been the easy way out.

It’s the completion of basically everything that a Navy pilot could reasonably aspire to achieve. Promotion without the long years spent waiting for seniority. Respected service without the inconvenience of being shipbound for months at a time. Relative safety in comparison to combat. Light work, longer leave, good pay. 

There are other things too, little things of physical comfort that makes it easier. Better accommodations, for one: his living quarters are big enough to house a family, if he has or wants any. Separate locker rooms and mess halls, with cooks and cleaners actually aiming to please rather than half-assing their work. More freedom, greater privileges. Status. Stability. It’s as close to a regular nine-to-five job as a military man can get, short of being a pencil-pusher, perfect for settling down while still being able to do what he loves best. It’s what Charlie wants. It’s what he should want. So why does he feel like as if he’s stifling to death half the time?

 _See, this is why you can’t have nice things, Maverick,_ he thinks sullenly as he pulls open the office door. _You can’t make yourself happy even when life hands it to you on a silver platter. Of all the God-forsaken messes on this planet…_

“Morning, Mitchell,” sounds a smooth voice nearby, too sudden and too close and unceremoniously startling him out of his little internal pity fest. He jumps about a foot in the air, fumbling with the sheaf of printouts in his hand; he recognizes the too-familiar voice a split second before they cascade to the ground with even less grace than his dignity. Of course it’s Iceman that he sees when he turns around. Of course the guy has to be there just as he’s trying to count the motherfucking blessings of his job. Great fucking timing.

To his credit, Iceman does not laugh, though one of his eyebrows raises in an unimpressed expression as he looks down at Maverick from behind his desk, who’s crouched over a pathetic pile of paper. 

“You know, we get issued filing folders for a reason,” he says mildly. “And paperclips.”

“And good morning to you too,” Maverick grinds out. He tells himself to be civil. They aren’t quite close enough to be called friends, exactly, but they have found a sort of courteous truce over the months, and if he’s forced to choose, Maverick would even prefer Iceman’s quiet company over the incessant bickering and boasting of the younger ensigns or the older officers’ perpetual disapproving frowns. Some of the time, anyway. Right now, not so much.

He quickly gathers his papers and straightens back up. Iceman is still sitting behind his desk, reclining lazily without ever having the slightest inclination of moving to help. Bastard’s even put his feet up too. A pen twirls its way across his fingers in an irritating pattern.

“You’re kind of looking pretty relaxed there,” Maverick says, before he can stop himself. “Can’t find anything better to do?”

Iceman shrugs and gestures at his desk, all the annoyingly clean expanse of it, shiny and clear of everything except for a file box and pen holder and a bag of... what, crackers? Sunflower seeds? Maverick stares at it. “What can I say, I’m on top of things.” He tilts his head, studying him with the too-intense look that always rubs him the wrong way. “You, though. Usually don’t see you around here… this time of the day. Must be a new record.”

Maverick inwardly curses the administrator who thought it would be a good idea to put them in adjacent offices in the same room. The space is divided down the middle by a glass wall equipped with blinds; he’d insisted on taking the bigger inner room with the runway view, to which Iceman had gracefully acceded, but it also means that he has to pass in front of the guy’s desk every time he wants to leave or enter. In the mornings he’s usually too busy trying to rush in before the flag and anthem to notice anyone along the way, but there are times when he swears he can feel the shadow of a gaze coming from between the blinds that’s not the imagination of his own vanity.

Cons of the job, he reminds himself. Iceman ranks above him in priority when it comes to staying at Top Gun, another glaring reminder that it’s _his_ name on the plaque, and Maverick could hardly fault him for taking the offer, especially with the long list of benefits he himself had just been going through. Layton rescue or not, he was lucky that Slider had opted out and they were willing to take on another pilot at all.

No, Viper probably would still have found a place for him out of some sense of obligation to his dead father. Poor man probably didn’t know what he was signing himself up for. 

He shies away from the train of thought before it could drop him down darker memory lanes. “We can't all be robots who wake up at six-thirty to do hospital corners.”

“Always such a delight in the morning,” Iceman observes. His tone’s perfectly passive, good-natured even, a far cry from the latent hostility of their student days, but Maverick feels himself bristling anyway, like a rooster that’s been poked with a stick. He whips his head around, an _I’ll be a 24-hour delight just for you_ already hot on the tip his tongue, but it dies away as soon as he takes in the full range of expressions on Iceman’s face. Whatever it is, it cannot really be _concern_ ; Maverick chalks it up to further proof of his mental problems. He averts his eyes, abruptly uncomfortable.

“You don’t look like you’ve slept too well,” says Iceman contemplatively, and Maverick tries not to squirm under the weight of his gaze, scrutinizing with enough intensity that it’s as if he’s trying to strip him with his eyes, or something. He’s startled, though, when Iceman suddenly snorts out a laugh. 

“No wonder you’re always late.” Iceman smirks, in such a way that makes Maverick know exactly that his amusement has to have come from his expense. “Rough night?”

Every one of the bruises and welts on his body twinge in unison. _He knows_ , is Maverick’s first coherent thought, right after that cold rushing moment of pure breathless panic, and he is suddenly naked, exposed, all his careful pretenses at normalcy peeled away to reveal the hideous malformed thing hiding underneath. The sheaf of papers flutter in his hand as he struggles to hold together what’s left. “What are you talking about?” 

It still comes out too high, too uneven, despite his best efforts. Iceman frowns, most likely at his tone, and there’s that weirdly concerned look again, the one that makes Maverick want to turn tail and run. But then he just shrugs, and flips the pen over to trace an invisible line from the base of his neck, extending it diagonally down over a clothed collarbone. “ _Here_ , Mitchell. Did you piss off Blackwood last night, or what?” 

Maverick claps a hand to his own neck. Sure enough, there is an answering sting, and he looks down to see a parallel set of red lines running down his skin, mirroring the path Iceman had just indicated. His relief quickly gives way to irritation at Charlie’s carelessness— she _never_ leaves marks where others could see— but then he realizes that no, _he_ ’s the one who’s careless, if his shirt had been done up properly, like Iceman’s— he can’t help but glare. “ _Or what_ , Kazansky. Keep your eyes to yourself.”

“I’m not the one who’s giving a show.” He leans back again, smug and perfectly cool, and pops something from the bag into his mouth. The pen resumes its infuriating dance across his fingers.

The gesture is so dismissive, so fucking condescending, that Maverick just snaps. The sensible part of his mind knows that he’s overreacting, knows that it’s childish, but in two steps he’s already closed the distance between them, looming over the other man and reaching across the desk; he grabs the bag from under Iceman’s nose, and digs out a huge handful of whatever the contents. Before either of them could react, he opens his mouth and shoves the whole thing in one go.

They’re fucking pistachios. _With the shells still on._

“Enjoy your show,” Maverick mumbles around a mouthful of shell. 

Iceman stares. Maverick chews emphatically, once, twice, a third time just for spite, then promptly turns to leave for his own office. The glass doors swing shut behind him with a dissatisfying rattle.

But he feels better somehow, than when he’d first walked in. Even if it’s stupid. Iceman’s stunned look makes spitting out the splintered shells almost worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

Afternoon rolls around with usual slowness, with some well-practiced dodges along the way to evade both Iceman and Viper’s company at lunch, and it’s one of those days that’s worth the wait. Four of the instructors are going on hops today: himself, Iceman, Jester, and another Lieutenant Commander whose long-winded name he has long given up on trying to remember, and each of them is pairing up with a student team to practice cooperative evasive maneuvers. The exercises are two-on-two, they draw lots for the face-offs; Maverick grabs for the slips first and draws Iceman, and neither of them is surprised.

“Ohhhh, tough luck for you,” he grins at Iceman when he announces the name. “Ready to get creamed?”

Iceman just rolls his eyes. “Just try to remember the point of the exercise, Mitchell.”

Jester mutters something about arrogant brats being a pain in the ass. Viper rolls a cigarette between his fingers and looks between them thoughtfully, but says nothing. 

* * *

The students that he’s assigned to work with today is a team from the new carrier, the _USS Carl Vinson_ , Henry “Magpie” Levy and his RIO, Something-that-starts-with-a-K “Spinster” Treston. No one’s chummy enough to use first names around here anyway. They’re a dour lot, as their call signs appropriately indicate, among those quiet mediocre students that Maverick remembers to be appreciative of every once in a while, for their lack of troublemaking and backtalk, if nothing else. It’s going to be a routine, unimaginative flight with those two, but then, everything is routine and unimaginative around here. 

Routine, unimaginative, but _safe_. There’s no threat of encounter with enemy aircraft, no breathtaking unpredictability of flying in open airspace over the high seas; no rushing adrenaline that comes with the knowledge that there is nothing but the sky above and the waters below, their carrier fleet small and insignificant as floating matchsticks upon the vast expanse of beckoning blue waves. No Cougar, breath harsh and swift by his ear and fearful cries of _I can’t land the plane_ , no danger of MiGs, no Stinger to blister his ears with endless lectures about discipline and responsibility and immature behaviour, no _Goose_ —

 _But Goose didn't die from these things, did he?_ A treacherous voice whispers in his head. _He died because—_

“Excuse me, Commander Mitchell, sir,” calls a voice from behind him, “I was wondering...”

“Huh?” Maverick glances down from the middle of his F-5 preflight, his mind still only half-present. Magpie is standing below on the tarmac, dressed in full flight gear. He looks around automatically. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting your plane ready?”

“We _are_ ready, sir,” Magpie says. His brow furrows in puzzlement. “We were...uh, actually, waiting for you, sir. Is there something wrong with your plane?”

“What?” Maverick turns back to the cockpit, spots the dash, compares it to his wristwatch, and promptly curses. The preflight checklist takes about 20 seconds max, he’d just made the process last who knows how long. To think that he had been complaining about the days being slow. “Shit. Uh. No. Just lost track of time.” He shoves a hand through his hair, flustered in embarrassment. “Sorry. Uh…”

“It’s fine, sir,” says Magpie quickly, looking equally uncomfortable at the apology, despite actually being his senior, as far as ages go. Funny, the things that rank does to a man. “I was wondering, could you go over the exercise with me again, before we take off? I’m not really sure I have it all down.”

Maverick opens his mouth to make a syllable and manages to snap it shut at the last moment, narrowly saving himself from blundering like an idiot, again. “But we just went through all that in class. It’s an evasive. Exercise. In cooperation and syncing.” He spread his hands helplessly and drops them again, the irritation at his own lapse quickly changing its object. Sure the guy’ll never have anyone betting on him for the trophy, but he usually isn’t _this_ dense. “It’s not new; nothing complicated. Just— work with me, okay? Follow my lead, you’ll be _fine_. We’re already late here, and Kazansky’s going to bitch, the tower’s going to bitch...”

Magpie leaves with a disgruntled apology, the doubt still obvious on his face. Maverick sighs as he climbs heavily into the cockpit. His mind is already drifting again, one errant memory after another, too fleeting for him to catch; once, he glances back, asking aloud for a weapons check. The smooth glass backing of the F-5 hatch glares back at him against the empty Californian sky. 

He rubs at his eyes under the visor, and is immensely grateful that he’d forgotten to flick on the comms.

Turns out the simple hop he’d envisioned actually is simple. _Too_ simple. Magpie and Spinster got missile locked by Iceman less than ten minutes in, despite all his efforts at screaming instructions over the comms, and now Iceman and his wingman crew, a talkative redhead with callsign “Kizaz” and his RIO, “Marilyn” Munroe, are following up their triumph by closing in on him with a series of perfectly executed weaves, the two planes flawless in their cooperation. He knows he should just help complete their maneuver by going after Iceman and let Kizaz get a lock on him when the time comes— that _is_ the purpose of the exercise, after all, to help the students practice— but he suddenly thinks back to his own student days, to the whispered rumours about his father, to Jester yelling at him about going below hard deck, to the plaque, to Iceman— 

A fire lights in the pit of his belly. The challenge rears.

He doesn’t go for Iceman, at first. Instead he focuses on Kizaz and Marylin, letting the other pilot zoom ahead while he makes to follow in pursuit; he falls behind a little, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Iceman approaching from the side, coming in for the kill—

He holds his plane at the same lazy speed a moment longer, counting the beats. At the last possible moment he shoots up up up, rolls— Iceman’s flight path has straightened out in confusion now, he hears the comms flick on—

“Mitchell! What the hell are you doing!”

He grins, points the plane in the perfect direction, and dives down for the lock.

“Mitchell!” 

It’s a walk in the park to get Kizaz after that. The poor guy had gone so far ahead that he had no idea what was happening behind him, apparently even Iceman has problems maintaining clear communication when taken by surprise. That, combined with the victory and knowing how Iceman’s going to be pissed at what he’d done… well, the thought shouldn’t make him so gleeful, but it does anyway, and it’s a rare enough feeling for him these days, so why not.

Maverick indulges himself in riding out the remnants of the adrenaline during the returning flight. It’s only when he’s back on the ground that the aftereffects of being too tense and overstrung start to catch up: the spots behind his eyes ache, and the backs of his thighs are two raw swathes of pain that spikes with every bit of pressure. He stumbles a bit on the disembarking jump, temporarily dizzy, and almost puts out a hand for support before remembering there’s no one else coming down from the plane. The ground crew flocks in, parting before him like waves around rock. 

He takes a few unsteady steps and lets his eyes roam around, the chafe of his flight suit acclimating to an irritating throb. Magpie and Spinster are giving him furtive glances over their shoulders as they attempt to creep unnoticed through the rows of parked jets; Iceman is nowhere to be seen, though Kizaz bounds up almost as soon as he spots him, yammering excitedly.

“How did you do it Commander? That was incredible! Me’n Marylin, you were right there on our tail, we thought Commander Kazansky was going to get you for sure— then I looked back and you weren’t there, how did you manage to get up in time...” 

Kizaz goes on like that for quite a while as they leave the hangar, gushing over the details of their flight with more enthusiasm than a teenage girl and just the right amount of awe and flattery to make Maverick’s ego wriggle in appreciation. He would have let himself enjoy it more, if not for the buzzing in his head. It makes him frustrated and edgy, eager for a fight or the bite of a belt, the residual hurt from last night’s exploits that nags his every step more of an annoyance than true pain, a constant reminder of his needs. 

Charlie’s waiting for him at the building doors, as if on cue. Her hands are on her hips, wearing the all too familiar Maverick-you-are-going-to-get-yourself-killed-if-you-keep-this-up expression again, furious and fond and looking for all the world like an exasperated mother ready to scold her wayward child. Maverick falters a little, even though he should be glad to see her, because this really isn’t the kind of fight he had in mind and he’d rather not deal with this right now, but she’s already stalking towards him, blue eyes blazing brighter than the sky. Kizaz scurries away with a snicker.

“What were you thinking!” She exclaims as soon as he comes within range of the full force of her wrath. “What were you _thinking_ , pulling a stunt like that— _Were_ you even thinking? I know you’ve always been full of yourself up there, but this is just plain irresponsible! You could have _stalled_ —”

“Oh come on,” Maverick summons up a chuckle, attempting to fend off an impending lecture that he knows from experience could last well over a half-hour in its most abbreviated version. “It was only a wingover. I’ve faced multiple MiGs.”

“Not at that steep an angle! Jesus Christ Mav, I saw the whole thing from the tower, it was completely uncalled for—” 

_The tower._ Maverick feels a grin spread across his face despite himself. “So you _do_ go up there to watch for me,” he laughs, delighted, and for a moment Charlie actually looks surprised by the sound, though she does a good job of hiding it. 

Guilt strikes him like a punch to the gut. _What sort of shitty company must I be,_ he wonders, _if she’s surprised at such a simple display of happiness? Did I sign her up for this, when I first chased after her? Does anyone actually want to sign up for this shit?_ The thoughts tumble too fast in his head, still wild and unfocused with buzzing energy; he sees the woman before him, the same woman that he went after in that bar a lifetime ago, and in a sudden desperate attempt to restore the world to some semblance of its old order, he pulls her in, and kisses her on the lips.

It’s nothing deep, only a quick, light press, pushing at the boundaries of what she’d allow on military grounds. His hands skim over the leather of her bomber jacket, brushing for the briefest time the supple warmth of her waist underneath; he registers the sensation of softness and the familiar taste of cherry lipstick, and then they are apart again, both flustered and a bit breathless. He looks at Charlie again, her golden hair a glowing halo in the afternoon sun, as bright and beautiful as the dusk of their first kiss, and his heart clenches with bitterness. She’s not the one who’s changed.

Charlie’s struggling and failing to maintain her stern facade. Eventually it fades to the back and affection wins through, a corner of her mouth twitching up into a coy smile, though the disapproval still lurks behind her eyes, never quite gone. She swats him on the shoulder in mock offense, fingers trailing down the material of his flight suit.

“You’re a dumbass, Maverick,” she proclaims firmly, before walking away.


	4. Chapter 4

The echo of his own bootsoles across the shiny floors of the facility halls pounds against the inside of his skull with each step he takes. The place is mostly deserted, the students all assigned off to hops or simulations and the officers happy to take advantage of their plush seats behind closed office doors. Nobody goes out of their way to greet him, for which he’s almost glad; by noon tomorrow at the latest everyone will know of his most recent little stunt, and while the incident is really nothing and his behaviour is hardly news by this point, there will always be talk. 

He remembers Goose and Viper asking if the shadow of his father’s name is the reason he always flies like he has something to prove. Now, he doesn’t know if he’s trying to prove himself or just proving the rest of them right.

Laughter comes from the students’ locker room as he passes by the door; he makes out numerous boisterous voices having an animated discussion about some kind of ball that he hasn’t bothered to catch up with in months. He slows for a second, half-heartedly toying with the idea of going in to hunt down Magpie and Spinster for their abysmal performance, but ultimately decides that it’s stupid; the noise is already grating on his headache, it’ll just look like he’s making a scene, and who does these kinds of things in the locker room anyway? He abandons the thought and moves on, the soft quiet and faint showerspray white noise of the command lockers a soothing balm for his nerves. 

That is, until a particular loud slam in the back makes him flinch.

_Oh. Right._

Maverick slides his gaze back with a mixture of trepidation and defiance, for the first time not quite looking forward to a fight anymore— now that the adrenaline’s faded to a headache, he’s just plain tired. But Iceman’s not even looking at him; his back’s firmly turned, focused on shrugging into a shirt. The disapproval radiates out of him in almost tangible waves. Just like everyone else unfortunate enough to be in Maverick’s life. 

He slams open his own locker and glares at Iceman’s spine. If eyes could burn, then there’d be scorch marks on his shirt. Of course he doesn’t turn.

“You have something to say to me, Kazansky, you can turn around and say it to my face,” he snaps, the embers of his nameless frustration suddenly rekindling with a vengeance. “Because this silent judgement shit is getting real old, real fast.”

“No, actually I don’t,” Iceman replies coldly. “I prefer not to waste my breath on things not worth the effort.” 

“What a surprise,” says Maverick, the words spilling out without a care in the world, “considering you always seem to have plenty to say about how I’m going to kill myself or someone else when up there. Fucking dangerous irresponsible shit, blah blah blah, right? While I appreciate the growth in confidence—”

Now something in _that_ sentence hits a nerve, not that he’s been keeping track of what he’s saying, and Iceman whirls around, eyes flashing sharply. He’s in his face faster than he’d thought possible; before Maverick really registers what’s going on he’s grabbed by the upper arms and shoved against the wall, eliciting a loud metallic bang. Maverick gasps as the motion jolts his bruises, he instinctively cringes, bracing for more. 

“You don’t ever take that as a joke, Mitchell,” Iceman grinds out, pupils wide with anger. His fingers dig into Maverick’s biceps like vices, holding him immobile with no room to move. “ _Ever._ ”

Maverick stares at him, uncomprehending. Between the closeness and the pain his breath is coming in embarrassingly unsteady flutters, pulse jackhammering at a dizzying beat, and maybe it’s the claustrophobia, but in that moment he’s frozen as a startled rabbit, all fight and logic gone. An eloquently strangled “what?” is all he manages to get out.

Iceman seems to realize that something’s off, and steps back with a frown. Maverick sways a little before catching himself on the locker doors, suddenly able to breathe again. Then he remembers what he’d said, and what Iceman’s words must have been insinuating, and his mind explodes in a wash of guilt and hurt and fear and desperate indignation. 

_That was an accident, that wasn’t my fault! I never killed anyone!_

Even as his mind scrambles for justification he knows that it’s a losing argument, and he flees from it in shame, hiding behind familiar walls of defiance and anger. “It was a legit evasive. I was in control. Nothing bad’s happened. So what’s the big deal!”

“The big deal is, Mitchell, that it’s _not all about you_ ,” Iceman hisses. “Hard to understand for your ego, I know.” He shakes his head in disgust at Maverick’s look of confusion. “You just don’t get it, do you? There was a point to that exercise— a point you obviously didn’t get despite four months on the job _and_ my reminder— and it’s to help the _students_ learn, not indulge in your stupidity. What you just did was uncooperative and a complete unnecessary risk—” 

That stung from an unexpected angle. Maverick tears his harness off and threw it at the ground, his glare focused through Iceman, instead of on him. “My _complete unnecessary risks_ were what saved your ass on the Indian ocean,” he spits out. “And the students— I tried, okay? Wasn’t my fault Magpie decided to fly like a blind pig. And it’s _my_ initiative how I decide to fly against your team, you’re not my superior, so quit telling me how to do my job!” 

“Did you even talk to Magpie about his performance?” Iceman asks, all calm and flat again. God Maverick hates it when he does that, makes him look like a tantrum-throwing teenager in comparison. For a second he feels a flicker of guilt as he’s reminded of his brief dally by the student lockers, then the defiance wins through, again.

“Did you talk to Kizaz?” he fires back. “‘Cause I’m pretty sure I got him good when I kicked your team’s ass, no thanks to your cooperation.”

Iceman snorts. “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. With you it’s all like a game of win-or-lose, you just _have_ to come out on top, every fucking time—”

“Oh look who’s talking, Mr. I’m-the-best-pilot-and-everyone-else-is-beneath-me—”

“Listen, Mitchell, if you’re trying to impress anyone—”

“Your wingman was plenty impressed,” snaps Maverick. “More by me than you.”

Iceman actually looks taken aback for a minute. Then he barks out a laugh. 

“Kizaz?” he asks. “You know there’s a reason he’s called that, right?”

Maverick’s eyes narrow in suspicious puzzlement. “No.”

“ _Kiz-az_ , Mitchell,” Iceman repeats, enunciating the syllables of the callsign as though it should mean something. “ _Kiss-ass._ ” He rolls his eyes as Maverick’s own widens in realization. “Get it?”

“Oh.” _So that’s why he was acting like a moonstruck fangirl_ , Maverick realizes, and laughs despite himself as he thinks back to all the previous times the guy had tried to sweeten up to him, always just a tad bit too heavy-handed with the flattery to seem truly genuine. He hadn’t cared enough to think anything of it before, but now that it’s pointed out… “I can see why he got the name,” he chuckles. Then, because he has the attention span of a five-year-old and gets sidetracked even in an argument— 

“Does NDA stand for something too?” he asks, referring to the callsign of the pilot who’d gone with Jester for the hop, the meaning behind which had long been a source of idle curiosity. The guy’s abrasive personality and tendency to rudely disagree with everyone and everything has made him just about as popular as Maverick himself, which is quite an achievement. “Non-disclosure agreement doesn’t sound right, not for someone with that kind of mouth.”

“Yeah, no,” Iceman snorts, and Maverick could almost pretend that their conversation could pass for banter, the normal kind that happens between friends. _Between me and Goose_. “It’s Non-Discriminatory Asshole, no exaggeration involved. His first CO coined the name, dubbed it all official and everything. He was the first one to get NDA’d, apparently.”

“Really,” says Maverick. All this is news. He had no idea Iceman had such an interest in gossip. “I didn’t know.”

“Everyone else does. That story gets referenced at least ten times a day.” Iceman frowns at him. But it’s different this time, the anger gone, replaced by something far worse. “You really don’t interact with them much, do you?”

It’s either the almost-gentleness of his tone, or the barely-concealed pity in his eyes, that gets to Maverick this time. “Maybe because I don’t want to. Maybe it’s none of your business. Since when did socializing become a job requirement anyway, _Ice_ man, and who the fuck are you to lecture me about it?”

Iceman takes a step back and throws his hands up in exasperation. “All I’m saying is maybe you could act slightly less menopausal and more like a normal person, but have it your way—”

“Boys,” a sharp voice suddenly calls out from the stalls, and Maverick jumps, the fingers he had been curling in preparation to throw the first punch freezing automatically as they are caught red-handed in the process. _Why didn’t Kazansky mention that it was Viper in there—why is Viper even_ using _the showers!_ “If I have to come out there and break up a fight, I can assure you there’s going to be some serious trouble, understand?”

“No,” he mutters mutinously, under his breath.

Iceman arches an eyebrow at him in a wordless dare, and he silently busies himself with his suit zipper. Iceman’s “Yes sir” rings out easily in the stuffy room as he moves away.

Maverick lets out a hiss that sounds none-too-subtly like “Kizaz.” 

“Don’t push it, Mitchell.”

He opens his mouth to push it, because heaven forbid if he doesn’t get the last word, but Viper chooses that moment to step out from the showers, shirt only half buttoned but a frown already clear on his face, the particular tailored brand that he keeps reserved just for Maverick. Maverick drops his gaze down guiltily, studying the cracks on the tiled floor. 

“So,” says Viper, and that single conversational syllable is already enough to make Maverick brace automatically for the chastisement that’s sure to follow. “I heard you had quite an exciting hop up there today. Beat Iceman’s team two-on-one, pretty impressive stuff, huh.”

Maverick shoots Iceman a furious glare before he can think better of it. _Snitch!_

Viper fixes him with a dry look. “I’ll assume snitch means you’re aware that what you did wasn’t exactly worthy of approval.” 

Maverick nearly bites his own tongue off. “No sir,” he mutters to Viper’s feet.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Viper says, somewhat testily, and he flicks his eyes up for an uncomfortable perfunctory contact before quickly averting them again, hoping that the brevity wouldn’t be interpreted as disrespect. Viper exhales a sigh. “You’re right that the initiative is yours once up in the air. I won’t argue with that. But—” He holds up a hand when Maverick raises his head, startled. “But keep in mind that there are responsibilities and expectations at stake too, Maverick. I hope that I can trust you to use your discretion wisely… even under circumstances that you think may warrant extreme judgement.”

“Sir? I...” That was so far from the usual telling-off that Maverick had been expecting to receive that for once he’s at a loss for words. He looks up at Viper, confused, but something in the other man’s demeanour simply seems… off, his eyes resting on Maverick but also straight through him, as if it’s not really _him_ that he’s seeing—

Oh. _Oh_ . So that’s why he tacked on the last cryptic bit. Maverick feels a cold flush break over his skin despite the overwhelming humidity, made worse by shame, because he really _hadn’t_ considered anything else back in the sky, the only reasoning backing his discretion being pure confidence and the need to win. The post-flight dizziness comes back in full force, this time with nausea for company, so it’s all he could do not to throw up right there. Somewhere in the corner Iceman is busy—or pretending to be—by his locker; he focuses on the soft rustle of shifting fabric, and that helps settle his stomach, somewhat. 

He must have spaced out longer than intended, because the next thing he knows Viper is frowning at him again and asking if he’s just going to stand there daydreaming or does he need an official dismissal to go use the shower. He flushes and hurries to undress from his flight suit, throwing them haphazardly onto a hook and hastening to grab toiletries; thankfully nobody comments on the fact that he’s going into the showers still clad in his underthings. Viper’s attention is turned to Iceman across the room, and Iceman is glancing at Maverick, who is surprised to imagine there to be the briefest flicker of guilt.

“A word?” says Viper to Iceman, inclining his chin towards the door. 

But his gaze flicks to Maverick too, implicatively, and Maverick realizes with a sinking heart that he has a good idea of what the topic of the ‘word’ is going to be about. 

Iceman finishes putting away the last of his things. “Of course, sir.”

Maverick slinks off before either of them could turn towards him again. 


	5. Chapter 5

He goes into the showers still running Iceman’s lines over and over in his head, compulsively analyzing and twisting at the words in a way that he knows is both petty and unhealthy. Does Iceman still believe that he’s dangerous by warning him not to take it as a joke? Fuck of course he does, but does he actually believe that he’d kill someone? Kill _him_? Like implying he has a previous record? _But Goose wasn’t my fault wasn’t my fault wasn’t my fault—_

_No._ He forcibly wrenches his mind away and tries to let the hot water rinse out all the messy thoughts. Like about everything else in his head these days, it’s all scrambled out of control. He thinks back to Iceman saying essentially that he’s self-absorbed to the point of neglecting duties, that his antisocialness isn’t normal _—_ is his behaviour so off then, that it’s becoming evident to everyone with eyes to see? He worries at this, not out of concern for his own mental state, because God knows that’s already fucked ten ways to hell, but for the future of his career; if someone’s going to suspect him of psychological issues, then that’ll be the end of his livelihood right there. No screw that, that’s being paranoid, Viper is his CO, if Viper isn’t saying anything _—_ he tries to take comfort in Viper’s words, how they hadn’t been exactly approving but not quite a rebuke either, but it just reminds him further of the way he had looked, not at Maverick as a person, but as some sort of disappointing stand-in, and what did he want with Iceman? Viper’s always liked Iceman, _trusted_ him in a way that he never did with Maverick. If Iceman says something… He’s almost certain that he’s the topic of their secretive conversation, or is that the self-absorbency talking?

In the end he cranks the faucet all the way to freezing to get his brain to stop. The results are that he’s still shivering when he comes around the parking lot for his motorcycle, and only partially from the cold; he’d successfully sent his own mind to a place far worse than any petty misgivings. The miserable drizzle that’s starting to fall does nothing to help his foul mood other than to bring it down even lower. 

Thankfully his quarters are just a few minutes away near the edge of base. Along the way he plans out a beautiful, therapeutic evening that involves intimate contact with his couch, TV, a bottle or five (the non-clinical substitution of zolpidem and painkillers), and a firmly horizontal view until further notice. It would be heaven.

His blissful agenda is interrupted by Charlie’s call halfway through the first bottle. She invites him to dinner, and he says yes, even though he’s weary and aching to the bone, because he can’t refuse her this, not after witnessing her surprise at his laugh. She’s put up with so much from him. He owes her this little bit of normalcy, at least. 

They end up going to a restaurant down by La Jolla. Maverick’s the one who chose the place, he tells Charlie it’s because it serves great seafood, and it does; but what actually draws him in is the view. It’s right by the beach, overlooking the cove, the floor-length windows that encircle each wall offering a breathtaking panorama of the ocean and skies. When he looks down, it’s as if the roiling black tides are dragging at his feet, three stories below. 

Charlie does most of the talking. He makes an effort to keep up with the conversation, sprinkling in the _uh-huh_ ’s and _that’s great’_ s and _oh really_ ’s at appropriate intervals, but it’s ridiculously difficult to concentrate; he’s frankly more interested in watching the subdued colours of the grey sunset reflecting off the water than listen to trivial details about her day. The movement of the waves is mesmerizing, he lets himself fantasize about the cold wetness of it on his skin, the salty burn of it in his lungs, the gentle yet colossal downwards pull. How the light material of his flight suit will wrap around his legs and drag at each kick like leaden weights, buffeted to and fro by the wandering currents. How the still body in his arms will weigh him down but keep him up as well, for those long exhausting moments before the chopper comes, a prayer answered too late for deliverance. 

“You don’t like the shellfish?”

He startles, jerks his gaze up a bit too quickly for nonchalance. Charlie gives him a puzzled look and flicks a finger at his plate, where he’s been absently picking at his food; his lobster sits mostly untouched save for its legs, which have been methodically dismembered. “I mean, you went right for it when we ordered, don’t you like it?” 

_I went right for it because it was the first thing on the menu._ “Oh. Um. Yeah, of course.” Maverick glances at her own dish, piled full of daintily dissected hollowed-out shells, and picks up a pincer. The gritty shards of shell on his tongue reminds him of the pistachios he’d chewed that morning. 

“I wish I’d chosen something easier to eat,” he admits. At least it would have been easier to feign an appetite that way.

Charlie laughs. “Eating’s too much work now? Sometimes I can’t believe how lazy you boys are.” 

Maverick blinks. Charlie reaches across and takes the plate from him; in a few deft movements she’d split the lobster open, spearing a chunk of white meat on a slim two-pronged fork. She brings the fork to his lips with a graceful twirl.

“Five-star service,” she smiles.

He can’t help but smile back, open and genuine. “Why thank you. I’ll add a dollar to your tip.”

They share a laugh, and in a way he’s amazed by the ease of it, like an old derailed sliding door used to dragging across the floorboards suddenly being settled snugly back on track. The smoothness is sweet, almost too good to be true. 

He knows it won’t last. It never does. 

Charlie feeds him the lobster bite by bite, surprisingly gentle in her patience. The mood is soft and erotic, the food spiced and salted in just the way he likes, but Maverick can’t bring himself to enjoy it, not when he’s left his stomach back in the heaving tides. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that cold liquor on an empty stomach before coming here. The tenderly cooked flesh feels like rubber on its way down; he wants to compare it to being seasick, except he doesn’t really know what that actually feels like. 

He turns away from Charlie’s proffered fork at the next mouthful, discreetly pressing a knuckle to his lips to keep everything down. Bile wells up from the back of his throat; he swallows hard, twice, eyes watering from the effort. There’s a glass of ice water right in front of him, but he doesn’t dare to open his mouth to drink; one more addition to the contents of his belly might just break the camel’s back. Charlie’s concerned voice sounds beside him.

“I’m fine,” he says, when he can speak again. He takes a gulp of water and regrets it immediately. Small, slow sips only. “I just… had too much at lunch.”

“At lunch.” Charlie echoes slowly. She gives him a long, scrutinizing look, a crease between her eyebrows. Maverick fiddles with a napkin corner, afraid that she might press the point, but eventually she lets her eyes drop and lowers the fork, leaning back in acceptance. 

“All right,” she says at last.

Maverick exhales in relief, and carefully steers the topic away.

They sit there for a while longer as the night wears on, the interior of the restaurant dimming as the last traces of ochre and blue seep from the horizon. Dusky orange lights flick on under opaque covers, and the waitresses come around with tapered candles, which cast the tabletop under flickering shadow. There’s a silence between them, stretched out longer than normal, and Charlie is staring at him expectantly across the flame, obviously tired of piloting a largely one-sided conversation. He cast around for something to say, but comes up with only blanks. The argument with Iceman springs up to the forefront. He clamps down firmly on that particular can of worms. 

He used to love spending time with her, used to find socialization easy and effortless. When did company become such a chore?

Outside in the night, the rainclouds are breaking across the skies. An almost-full moon peeks out from behind a cloud, spilling a brief strip of silver light across the thousand ripples. From somewhere far beyond the darkness, a seabird cries, high and shrill.

The cry rises to a laughing shriek, much louder this time, not muted by glass or space. He turns in his seat, momentarily disoriented; a few aisles down, two young boys are chasing each other around a table, their shrill laughter riding over the hushed admonishments of their parents.

He looks at them, at the happy, carefree picture of the little family, and thinks of how the youngest boy must be around five or six. Goose’s eldest son is around the same age; his girls are a couple of years younger, almost as young as Maverick had been when he lost his own father. He has no clear memories of the man other than half-imagined shadows from a distant childhood, even the image of his mother has long faded from his mind, blurred by the unpleasant years of youth and early estrangement. He wonders if it would be like that for Goose’s children. _Will they grow up having no memories of him? As if he’d never existed in their lives?_

“We’ll have our own someday,” Charlie says quietly, and he whips around at her, wide-eyed and trembling. How could she even think of such a thing at a time like this? But her attention isn’t focused on him; she too is looking at the boys, hands folded and a soft wistfulness clouded over her eyes. “Do you like sons, or daughters? Maybe a boy, to fly with you one day… he’ll be a great pilot, if he has even half your talent.”

Maverick has to bite his lip and fight hard to choke back the tears. 

That night in his dreams, the waters that claim them blaze white under the light of a clear moon.

* * *

He sees little of Iceman the next day, their only encounter in the halls being a quick exchange of cursory greetings. Nothing seems amiss— though Iceman never gives anything away with his poker face— but Maverick takes it as a good sign nevertheless. He goes through the regular motions: paperwork, a lunch that he can’t avoid because Viper comes by personally to extend the invitation, class, more paperwork. Viper doesn’t say anything meaningful to him at lunch— actually he doesn’t really say anything to Maverick at all, with the other table company being a bunch of higher administrative officers who are, unsurprisingly, all the same age as Viper. They spent the entire lunch hour smoking and making worldly conversation about politics and IR and just boasting about their good old days in general, and Maverick is more than happy to be left ignored. The only time anyone addressed him directly had been Viper telling him to eat properly and stop playing around with his food, which had been _mortifying_. Lo and behold that got them to start reminiscing about the days when the rationing system was in place. Maverick sincerely hopes that he doesn’t turn out like those people in thirty years. 

Everything’s quiet for the rest of the afternoon. The adjacent office remains empty despite his constant peeks, and as Maverick slips out to use the washroom he thinks back to Iceman and wonders if he’s not enjoying the solitude as much as he should. Charlie’s words from last night still unsettle him, she’d wanted children, engagement, assurance of a stable future— all of which he feels he isn’t yet ready to give. 

“It’s okay if you’re not ready,” she had said, her expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I know it’s too soon since— I know you’re young, and probably want to play around for a few more years. But it’s different for me, you understand? I’m older than you, I gave up a higher career in Washington… I just need to have _something_ , Maverick, to make me feel this is worth it.”

To make me feel that _you_ are worth it. Maverick may not be the most perceptive person when it comes to relationships, but even he can read between the lines on this one.

He cannot blame her for her insecurities. But he also cannot give her the reassurance that she needs, not when his mind automatically recoils in fear every time he even _tries_ to think about it.

_Forget thirty years. I can barely stand to think about the next day._

This is where he starts to miss Iceman. Having someone to talk to might help take his mind off things, even if all they do is end up arguing. That man has the talent to rile him up by his presence alone, it would be a welcome distraction, if nothing else.

To his surprise, there _is_ a distraction waiting at the doorway when he returns. At first he thinks it’s Iceman, and is puzzled as to why he’s loitering outside his own office as opposed to going straight in, then his brain catches up. “Hey Lieutenant Levy. Kazansky’s not in, who are you here to see?”

“You,” Magpie says. Most likely _his_ brain still hasn't caught up yet. Maverick tilts his head, and Magpie quickly backtracks, blushing in embarrassment. “Sir. I mean— excuse me, Commander Mitchell, I’m here to see you, sir. I, uh, I’d like to apologize for my flying yesterday, if I may. I know it was way below expectations and a pretty dismal performance, nothing close to what you taught in class. I’m sorry.”

Maverick remembers debating whether or not to speak with him yesterday, and takes a minute to marvel at Magpie’s initiative. Then he spreads his hands and shrugs. 

“That’s okay,” he says magnanimously. “Everyone has their bad days. As long as you do better next time.” He moves to open the door, considering the conversation over. 

“Wait,” Magpie says hastily. Maverick pauses with his hand on the door handle. He lets out a long, patient breath, and lifts his head with a smile.

“Is there anything else you need?” he asks in a polite, pleasant voice. He sounds like a waiter.

Magpie’s fingers worry at the hem of his clothes. “No. Yes. I—” he frowns and visibly composes himself. “I’m not sure if I can really do this. The program, I mean. Before I thought I was a pretty good pilot, but the challenges here are…”

He trails off and shakes his head. Maverick looks over his shoulder.

“Afternoon, Commander Mitchell!” Kizaz calls cheerily. He’s carrying a heavy crate of what looks like loose paper and manuals. “Hey Henry.”

“Mitchell, Levy.” Iceman’s greeting is curter. His hand brushes Maverick’s as he reaches for the handle, pragmatically leaning into his personal space, and Maverick flinches away without thinking, the reaction instinctive. Iceman shoots him an odd look. 

“Come on, put it on the desk. We’ll sort them into stacks.”

The door swings shut behind them. 

“You’re hardly the worst student here, Levy,” Maverick says to the blank wood in front of his face, rubbing his hand on his thigh like trying to rid himself of an itch. “And you and Treston aren't really the worst team on the scoreboard. What exactly is your concern?”

“I don’t....” Magpie shakes his head again. “I don’t know. It’s been a lot stressful. I just have a bad feeling about making it out of here. Don’t think I’m really cut out for it.”

“It’s only one underperformance.” Granted, he doesn’t have any particularly good performances either, considering the overall quality of those selected for Top Gun, but that’ll be stupid to say out loud. He keeps rubbing at his hand. “Are you thinking of leaving the program?”

Magpie looks down. 

Maverick faces him with a sharp movement. “That would reflect very poorly upon your records, if you choose to do so without legitimate reason.” He selects his next words cautiously, aware that this could be thin ice. “Disregarding yesterday, the majority of your other grades so far are all up to standard. Sure going for the first might be out of question, but you should have no difficulty graduating. If the problem is only a lack of confidence, then I highly advise you to think this over, or talk with your RIO, family and friends, _anyone_ else before making a final decision. ”

“Spinster doesn’t think a big deal of it,” Magpie admits.

Maverick nods. “For the sake of your career, I suggest you don’t either. A graduating transcript and a dropout one here might make the difference between heaven and hell.” 

There’s a brief silence. Maverick suddenly feels drained to the core, with only the bitter dregs left behind. Charlie’s voice echoes in his ear, clear as yesterday. _So you didn’t learn a damn thing, did you, except to quit? You’ve got that maneuver down real well._

“I understand,” says Magpie quietly. “Thank you, sir.”

Maverick doesn’t watch him when he heads off down the hall, hardly even noticing the absence. He stands there alone for a long while, then makes to enter the office; he raises a hand to the handle, but rests it there instead of pressing down. The ghost of the touch is still there, searing and uncomfortable. The skin on the base of his thumb is bright reddish-pink, raw from all the chafing. He could hear the crisp rustles of paper on the other side, accompanied by a steady murmur of low voices.

The hand on the door lifts away to cover his own face. 

“I need a drink,” he mutters to himself.


	6. Chapter 6

“Wake up. Wake up.”

Crisp yellowish light filters in through his eyelids as he struggles to open them. There’s the worst kind of pressure behind his eyes, the kind that makes your head pound like the devil’s anvil, and everything seems weird and off. 

“I’m sorry. Are you awake?”

“Whaa—” His tongue’s too thick to cooperate. He unsticks his cheek from the smooth surface it’s been resting on and lifts his head. The movement elicits a silent shriek of protest from his neck and back. There’s an unpleasant tightness in his chest that borders on nausea.

The speaker is a young woman in a skimpy red sequin top, pretty and blonde and somewhat more familiar than her surroundings. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re closing for the day. Would you like to pay for the rest of your drinks and head home?”

It’s one of those things that’s phrased like a polite question but really isn’t. Maverick squints at her, surprised to find a name at the tip of his tongue. “Amber?”

“Yes. The bill?”

He rubs his eyes, vision going fuzzy for a bit, then refocuses behind the tight curve of her waist and ass. The next minute he’s springing up and casting his eyes wildly around like a rabbit with its tail on fire. Several empty bottles clatter to the floor by his elbow.

“Holy mother of God! What time is it?!”

“Quarter after eleven.” 

The morning hop! He lets out a strangled moan. “Oh no….” 

Amber looks distinctly unimpressed by his utter dismay. “The bill, if you please? It’s eighty-eight twenty-five.”

What the hell had he been drinking to cost that much, top-shelf tequila? He throws down two fifties on the table without looking at the receipt and rushes out of the little private cubicle of the dingy little San Diego bar where, apparently, he had spent the whole of last night drinking himself senseless, tugging at his dishevelled clothing as he went. His belt’s untucked and his fly button is missing. He stops dead and turns around.

“Wait, how come I know your name?” 

The bargirl shrugs and shamelessly pocket one of the fifties before sliding the other one into the bill pad. “You spent half the night saying it.”

Maverick makes a choked sound and flees the bar.

* * *

Much as he wants to floor the gas and fly all the way back to base, the noon San Diego traffic keeps him stuck in the middle of molasses. The cool air eases some of the discomforts from his hangover, so between the endless traffic lights Maverick busies himself with cursing his own stupidity and drafting up an acceptable excuse for his unexplained absence: claiming to have come down sick seems to be the obvious solution. As for why he didn’t call in beforehand… maybe he can say that he just woke up at noon with a fever. Or slipped in the bathroom and hit his head. Or had morning sickness and couldn’t use the phone. Or…

Or just sound pathetic and try to milk Viper’s pity for a bit. Shouldn't be that hard to do considering the state he’s in right now; he’ll barely have to act. Maverick sighs and lets up on the red light he’d been planning to cross. What with the headache and queasy tightness in his chest, he’s pretty sure that last night’s alcohol hadn’t fully metabolized itself out of his system, and the last thing he needs is to get caught for DUI. That would just be the cherry on top of the cream; even he doesn’t deserve _that_ level of unfortunate. 

He hits full throttle immediately after he’s out of the city, parking his motorcycle haphazardly on the drive and running into the house as soon as he arrives, beelining straight for the phone mounted by the kitchen. He spares a glance for the clock along the way: it’s past twelve, the time frame for the plausibility of waking up sick is almost running out—

The phone rings before he even reaches it.

Maverick winces and has to mentally brace himself before picking it up, pulse still drumming from the race inside. “Hello, Mitchell speaking.” 

Viper’s voice drills into his ear right away. “Nice to hear you’re answering the phone.” 

There’s no anger in his tone, just a strained tenseness. “I can explain, sir,” Maverick says swiftly, taking a deep breath in preparation to deliver his rehearsed lines with full remorse. “I am _so_ sorry, this morning I was—”

Viper interrupts him unceremoniously. “Not right now, Maverick.” He pauses, and it sounds as if he’s talking to someone else; the background noise is messy, and Maverick makes out a faint “he’s back, get her to head down” on the other end before the speaker’s firmly muffled. He counts a full fifteen beats before Viper speaks again. “Listen, I got bad news— I need you to keep a level head for this, okay? There was an accident this morning during routine exercise.”

“Who?” is his first automatic response. He abruptly thinks back to his dreams, the rare ones where it wasn’t him and Goose in the water, and his lungs constrict so badly that he sees spots across his vision. _Please don’t let it be…_

Viper does not have the chance to answer immediately. There’s a flurry of commotion at the other end, and another agonizing heartbeat passes with him twisting and untwisting the phone cord around his fingers, then the receiver gets picked up again and a new voice comes through, cool and smooth and sounding like heaven. “Hello, Mitchell?”

“Kazansky.” He breathes out a sigh of relief and sags against the kitchen counter. “Where’s Viper?”

A sharp sound rings out at the other end. “Really Mitchell? You get told there’s an accident and that’s the first thing you think to ask?”

Maverick untangles his fingers from the phone cord and watches the red lines fade into his skin. His hands are shaking, he notes with a sense of detached curiosity, but his mind is strangely settled, languid even, more tranquil than it has been in a long time. “No,” he says. “What happened?”

“Levy— Magpie. He lost control of his plane in the exercise this morning, ditched off the coast of the Torrey reserve. They managed to eject, but his RIO—Treston—he’s in critical condition. Doesn’t look too good right now.”

“Oh.”

Iceman’s words echo flatly across the line. _So it’s happened_ , Maverick thinks with a sense of distant inevitability, and a part of him is aware that he should be grieved, shocked, dismayed at such a terrible tragedy, but all the normal emotions seem to be delayed in responding; his mind is a shrouded void, with only a single voice that resounds over and over: _I have a bad feeling about making it out of here_. He studies his shaking hands. Was it only yesterday that Magpie had admitted his concerns to him? Was this only a freak accident of bad luck, or some manifestation of self-fulfilling prophecy due to lack of confidence? At this oddest of times, he suddenly recalls a bit of random trivia about magpies being birds of ill omen, and the nagging queasiness returns to boil full force in his chest and stomach. This time he doesn’t know if it’s a biological response to his hangover or a result of his own self-disgust.

“Where the hell were you? We called, Blackwood called, nobody was answering. You literally—”

 _I was getting drunk in a bar and making out with the bargirl._ He forces his voice not to tremble. “I was sick.”

“You were _sick._ ” Iceman repeats in a tone dripping with skepticism. “We sent a runner to your house less than an hour ago, Mitchell, you weren’t home.” There’s a tight, exasperated exhale, the slam of an object striking a table. “You know what, doesn’t matter, forget it. We’re cancelling classes today and tomorrow, anyway. You might as well have the rest of the day off if you’re sick.”

“No! No I’m not—I can be there in five minutes.” He jumps up and starts to fumble in his pockets for the motorcycle keys. “Please. I wasn’t— It was supposed to be my class, I should have been—”

“No, don’t.” Iceman cuts in harshly. “We aren’t at base, we’re at San Diego medical. Nothing to do except watch the monitors beep. Unless you want to trade in for making condolence calls or try explaining this shit to the Navy, I suggest you take the gift and _stay home_ , Mitchell.”

He stills and closes his eyes, clutching tight at the edge of the counter. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

“Viper’s calling a meeting at oh-nine hundred tomorrow to get this sorted out. We’re keeping our heads low here and confining all inquiries to the office, but in the meantime if you do get any calls from anyone else, it’s imperative that you _do not_ say anything until we can get the cause and blame stuff straight. You got that?”

Maverick makes an automatic noise of affirmation. There’s a short silence filled with harsh incoherent argument, but when Iceman speaks again, his voice comes through as quieter, the cutting edge filtered away. “Viper’s busy right now. Do you want him to call you back? We probably aren't going to be back until later, but he says if you want him to come over—”

“No,” Maverick says quickly, though he suddenly desperately misses the comfort that Viper would be able to provide at such a time, the subtle presence of the firm sense of reassurance that everything’ll be alright even when he’s being admonished— but that would hardly be fair, would it, to force Viper to deal with Maverick’s petty problems on top of the already tremendous pressure he must be under just because Maverick’s being too pathetic to cope? He’s hardly a child in need of patronization— certainly not _Viper’s_ child, which gives him no rightful excuse to take advantage of his superior officer’s kindness by inflicting himself on the man like an inconvenient illness. He tries to sound airy about it. “He must have a shitload on his plate right now, tell him not to mind me. I’m fine as is. See him tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Iceman concedes without argument. He lets out a slow breath, as if steeling himself for something. “Don’t— just don’t overthink this, okay? It’s got absolutely nothing to do with you. If anything, it was very fortunate you weren’t there when it happened. Even if you were… you wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing except watch.”

Maverick flinches. “Is that right?” he asks, the words bitter in his mouth. But in truth he isn’t looking for an answer. The uncharacteristic hesitancy in Iceman’s voice already reminds him too closely of the awkward consolation that he’d tried to give following Goose’s death. He bites down on his lip until he tastes blood. “Never mind. I… I understand.”

“Yeah, believe me, I’ve been there.” Iceman gives a humourless snort, and Maverick belatedly realizes that of course, another instructor would have had to take his place in the morning hop to cover for his absence. Is that what Iceman means by having been there, that he’d been the one unfortunate enough to land the jackpot for that one? _Or he could be referring to Goose’s incident_ , whispers a corner of his mind, but by now he’s really too numb to care. Iceman sighs when he doesn’t respond. “Well. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Wait!” Maverick cries suddenly, before the other side has a chance to end the call. His lungs burn as if he’s underwater, heart hammering in swift aimless anxiety. But he has to ask this, or else he’ll never be able to rest in his grave. “Treston— he’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”

There is a long, long pause, then Iceman gives a single, bitter chuckle at the other end. 

“I wouldn’t fool myself on that one, Mitchell,” he says coldly. 

The phone hangs up with an impartial click.

Very precisely, with careful, choreographed movements, Maverick sets the receiver back to its rightful place on the mounted rack. He remains in that position for a moment longer, eyes closed and braced against the wall. He presses a hand over his mouth.

_It’s got absolutely nothing to do with you._

He runs to the bathroom and spends the next two hours heaving last night’s liquor out into the toilet.


	7. Chapter 7

Maverick immediately senses the change in the air when he steps into the facility building, mind both wired and unfocused at the same time after a night of lying awake alone in the dark. There’s a greyish drizzle outside again, the lack of sunlight casting the halls with an appropriate gloom of solemnity, but this time there are whispers coming from behind the shifting shadows. Despite the lack of students, the entire building is abuzz; everywhere he looks there are staff and ensigns talking about the incident, effortlessly transforming grim tragedy into idle gossip; half the time they barely even bother to keep their voices lowered. They fall silent as he passes, the exchange of usual greetings replaced with awkward nods and uneasy mutters. Once he even catches a glimpse of Charlie by the printing room; he starts to call out, but she ducks her head and hurries inside without seeing him. He doesn’t follow.

More than once or twice he notices furtive stares burning into his back. The word “harbinger” stands out like a slap amid the maelstrom. 

The conference room that’s designated for their regular meetings is the farthest on the second floor, beyond a plethora of CO offices. As Maverick makes his way down the hall he gives a habitual glance at Viper’s office, and is instantly surprised to hear a raised voice come from behind the closed door. His footsteps slow of their own accord. 

“—two casualties in less than half a year! The people up top’s gonna give us shit about this— can you imagine the publicity once this gets out? Last time was bad enough—”

“...count it a fucking goddamn blessing that they dumped by the reserve where there’s more trees than people.” Viper’s familiar voice is curt and wry.

“...already getting witness reports at the press...”

_How did the cat die again?_

Maverick sneaks a look around and checks his watch. There’s still a fair while until the scheduled meeting time, the corridor around him is calm and empty; nobody dares to loiter this close to the command offices. Common sense tells him that he really shouldn’t either— it’s impolite and there are cameras on the floor and he could get in big trouble if caught— but it sounds like a quite a few people in there and he has the worst feeling that his name is going to come up sometime with nothing good attached to it, and he’s really desperate for news about Treston’s condition, so he sucks in a deep breath and sidles up against the door. The first person is talking again. Maverick racks his memories to match a name to the distinctive baritone.

“...years they’ve been drooling at our funds… equivalent to handing over our own asses on a silver platter. Damn the fucking idiot. And that pet kid of yours, Mike, I told you—” 

The way that the man addressed Viper suddenly clicks in Maverick’s mind. It’s Westford, one of the senior admins that coordinate the program with the Navy, one of Viper’s closer affiliates. Maverick doesn’t know the man well, but during the few occasions that they did interact, Westford has always treated him with friendly courtesy, with none of the haughty derogative attitudes that so many other officials held for youngsters below their rank. To say that his next words came as a surprise would be a massive understatement. “I _told_ you he’d be nothing but trouble. But no you wouldn’t listen, and now they’re seeing the correlations between the two—”

Viper— or at least Maverick assumes it’s Viper— cuts him off with a short, sharp line, though the cant of the voice is too low to make out the individual words. Maverick fights down the indignant fury threatening to claw its way out of his throat. Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves indeed. He clenches his teeth and presses closer.

“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like Mitchell,” mutters Jester. “He’s more trouble than he’s worth. But he wasn’t even there at— yesterday when it happened. There’s no fairness or reason...”

“See, that right there’s the problem. He wasn’t where he’s supposed to be. It’s his class, his hop, and _you_ try telling them that he’s got nothing to do with it in fairness and reason. Like those pricks fucking care.”

“Mike’s already—”

Jester shuts himself up.

“With all due respect, sir, that sounds like all the more reason for damage control,” says a fourth voice, calm and even with a marked air of detached disinterest. Iceman, Maverick realizes bitterly. Of course he’d be there. Go figure. “Limit the casualties of the incident to the two lieutenants involved. Going along with this kind of thing’ll only harm our own reputation.”

“And what kind of _notorious_ reputation did Mitchell bring here in the first place?” Westford snaps. 

“A hero’s, after Layton.” Iceman says quietly. 

There’s a harsh laugh. “Well the bad parts always leave a longer impression than the good ones doesn’t it? The Navy’s already sniffing around him. And when this last bit gets reported...” 

Someone says something, too low for Maverick to catch. Westford speaks again, and this time he sounds thoroughly disgusted. “What’s the fucking point! Take the chance to minesweep, give the brass and press a bone to chew on. Mitchell, Levy, all of them. I know you feel like you owe it to his old man—” 

Maverick’s heard enough. His sweat-slicked palm slips furiously on the door handle.

“—and believe me, so do I... call me ungrateful all you want, but that boy’s bad luck, bad influence, bad rep. We _cannot_ afford—”

_Bang._

Heads swivel around to stare at him amid the acrid stench of tobacco. Jester’s startled into making an aborted motion to get up, and promptly curses when he catches sight of Maverick. Maverick steps forward, expecting to see the same disgusted surprise mirrored in all their faces, but only Viper meets his gaze head-on. It’s steady and unrevealing, with no hint of guilt or condemnation. He cannot hold it.

“Your business here, Lieutenant Commander?” asks Westford coldly. “This is a superior’s office.”

Maverick lifts his chin. “Of course, _sir_ ,” he says, biting out the honorific like a curse, struggling to keep his voice under tight control. He lets the anger that he can’t quite keep down seep through his eyes, and directs them at Westford until he sees a finger twitch on the man’s lap. “And I’m sorry if I interrupted anything. But I was told to be in for a meeting at nine— I wasn’t aware that it’s been rescheduled to be held here in advance.”

The barely-concealed challenge hangs in the air. Under any other kind of circumstance, this kind of insolence would have warranted a blistering dressing down, if not immediate disciplinary action; now he’s met with only frigid silence. 

Slowly, Westford leans forward and taps the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray beside Viper’s elbow. Maverick's sure that it’s some sort of silent exchange; the words “see, this is exactly what I’m talking about” is plain as writing on Westford’s face. 

Still nobody says anything. Jester exhales a cloud of pale smoke and looks away; Iceman, leaning with his arms folded against the wall, does not acknowledge his presence at all. Viper continues to regard him evenly from his seat behind his desk, his facade a guarded vault. Maverick feels his anger quickly erode into panic. _What if…_

“The meeting’s still at nine,” says Viper eventually. For all intents and purposes, he might as well be talking about the weather. “Which is about… right now. Gentlemen?”

It's a clear dismissal. Wordlessly, with a collective rustle, the three other men in the room gather their items and move to exit. Maverick sets his jaw and remains anchored in his position in the middle of the doorway without apology, forcing them to sidestep. 

“Stupid,” Iceman hisses as he shoves past him. 

Maverick tries to swallow his emotions. It doesn’t quite work.

Viper is the last to stand. He stops in front of Maverick when he reaches the door, instead of simply moving around like the others. Maverick cannot meet his eyes at all this time. _Don’t cry,_ he tells himself. _Not now. Not_ now _._

But his own mind rebels against him, as it always has done, and in a single sweeping tide all the guilt and hurt and fear and bitter betrayal, of which he has kept so carefully repressed ever since his first hesitant pause in front of the door, rises to engulf him in its cold grasp. He put his hands behind his back and digs his nails into his wrists to stop them from trembling. 

“Sir,” he says, and his voice cracks slightly on the single syllable, so that he has to cough and clear his throat. “I’m sorry...” 

It’s only then that he realizes the full extent of the sheer patheticness of the whole situation that he brought upon himself. Sorry for what? For his unexplained absence yesterday? For not being there during the accident when it was supposed to be on his watch? For tarnishing the reputation of the program and being a burden on a personal level? For eavesdropping and barging in on a closed-circle meeting that clearly unwelcomes his presence? Someone’s almost died. There’s no righteousness on his side. What’s he supposed to say that’s going to cut it? What _can_ he even say? 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and it’s laughable, how even now the only thing that he can go with is an evasive lie. “About yesterday. I… I wasn’t feeling well and...”

“You were sick,” says Viper, and his voice is mild, almost gentle, which makes Maverick feel like he might actually be sick. “Yes, Kazansky told me.”

“l know it's no excuse for not showing up for duty. I'll take full responsibility for malingering. I’ll take full responsibility for the absence. For whatever else. It doesn’t—”

Viper’s shaking his head. Maverick falls silent and ducks slightly away, willing himself to hold it together. 

A firm hand on his shoulder turns him back. He tenses against the commanding strength only for a fraction of a millisecond before giving in. Viper pushes a file into his hands.

“Open it, get familiar with it, and don’t make a habit of it.” 

Maverick obeys on autopilot. Inside is a crisp copy of a page of his own health file detailing a treatment record by the base infirmary. Listed are common flu symptoms and a rec for bed rest. Attached is the signed chit granting permission for sick leave and all the necessary paperwork legitimizing the absence. The treatment record timestamps two nights prior; the chit is for yesterday. Everything is organized and flawless. 

His vision blurs in shame. The grip on his shoulder tightens ever so slightly.

“I hope you’re feeling better today, Lieutenant,” says Viper with a touch of irony, and steers him firmly towards the door.

Maverick could hear Westford’s splutter of disgust down the halls. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to be part of the next scene, but the word count ran away with my rambling and the pacing's pretty much dead and buried and rolling around in its grave anyway, so...


	8. Chapter 8

_Pilot error._

The entirety of the five-hour-long meeting draws to a close upon the conclusive determination of these two little words. All around, people are breaking into a buzz of low conversation, all of the officials, instructors, specialists, civilian contractors pertinent or knowledgeable enough in matters regarding the incident to warrant a seat in the room, all expressing the same variations of regret, sympathy, grievance, disgust, and bits of juicy hearsay exchanged under the guise of concern. Charlie’s among them, sitting near the end of the long table. When they look at each other, the expression on her face is one of resigned apprehension. 

Viper’s chair squeals across the linoleum as he gets up to stretch his legs, lighter already in hand. Jester and a few other older men follow him, and they group around a corner by the windows, talking in low tones. Across the table Westford is deep in conversation with the instructor whose long name he keeps forgetting, occasionally shooting sidelong glances at him dipped in hefty doses of disapproval. Maverick doesn’t care. He just wants them all to shut up.

Beside him, Iceman stands and starts to take down projector transparencies and the numerous flight records and equipment data pinned up on the display board. Technically, these kinds of things are supposed to be Maverick’s job— he’s the most junior officer there— but he’s never had Iceman’s discerning initiative when it comes to brown-nosing and remains slumped in his seat with no will to do anything other than stare at the table. Over the next few days, everything in the stacks, including his medical file, will be copied and sealed and submitted to JAG Corps inspection along with all other relevant information. From there it’s out of their hands; all they need to do is wait for the court-martial, and the decision they make will either spare a man’s career or break it. All evidence currently points to the latter.

Viper had announced that Treston was airlifted to Los Angeles for treatment last night. His future lies in fate’s hands alone now, outside the authority of any man, and no judgement made by the JAG Corps will be able to change the outcome. Maverick’s not a religious enough person to believe in fate, but now he’s beginning to believe that _something_ in the universe is out to conspire against him. Or any other person he happens to be around.

 _That’s just typical, to make everything about yourself,_ again _. At least have some decency._

“See, not everyone can just get up and walk away after crashing a plane,” someone is saying down the line, just loud enough for him to hear. “That’s gonna be some serious charges. You can sell the kid a thousand times over and not cover a fraction of the damage caused, not to mention a life.”

Another person laughs. “Looks like you bagged yourself some lucky prize there, Blackwood.”

Maverick jerks up immediately. He’s already halfway out of his chair when something grabs his arm and yanks him back; he lands hard and twists around with a hiss. Iceman’s filing papers beside him, the very picture of nonchalance. 

“You want to make a fool of yourself, I won’t stop you,” he says without turning.

Cold anger washes over Maverick, quickening his breath and burning his cheeks. Insults to himself are nothing new; if he was to punch everyone who’s ever said a bad word about him, then he’d be making his life as a professional boxer. But to drag _Charlie_ into this— he’s bracing himself to rise again when he hears.

Charlie’s laughing with them.

He sits there frozen for a minute, unable to do anything but listen, the soft laughter painfully distinguishable amid the roomful of male baritones. She isn’t really finding the comment funny— he’s familiar enough with her moods to tell that it’s just a polite echo, borderlining on awkwardness, but there’s no rebuttal either. Not in front of all these people.

 _Sensible as always_ , he thinks, and cannot help the bitter edge that creeps into his mind.

Charlie frowns and gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head when she catches him looking, and leans in a bit more than necessary to resume her conversation. The new posture conveniently conceals her face from view.

He drops his eyes back down to the nonjudgemental wood in front of him and tries his hardest to block out the pitying and mocking stares. 

“Ahem,” Viper clears his throat. He’d resumed his seat much more quietly than he’d left it. 

The room falls silent. All eyes turn to the head of the trestle table. 

“Now that we have identified a tentative cause of the incident—” Viper snuffs out his cigar, creating a pause which is probably more for effect than necessity, “I would like all documents to be organized and sent to my office by tomorrow morning at the latest. That means all information, everything that happened on November fifth concerning Lieutenants Levy and Treston.” 

He goes on to list a few names, delegating duties and paperwork to the appropriate people. Iceman is called, as well as Jester and Charlie and all the other instructors with a set class. Maverick’s name remains absent.

“Alright, that’s about it,” says Viper when he’s finished. “Get a head start on everything you can, we need to show the Navy that our response is prompt and cooperative. When classes resume tomorrow it’s the old rules: you don’t say anything to the students until the official decisions come out. Anyone caught spreading or encouraging any kind of talk will face charges of disloyal statement, nothing new here, it’s all familiar protocol. We’ll meet again tomorrow after hours to go over the finalized papers.” He stops for a break and looks around. “Any questions or other information anyone would like to share?”

He’s met by a collective shaking of heads.

“Alright then—”

“Lieutenant Commander Maoileanach has brought up something that might be relevant,” says Westford.

“Go ahead,” Viper gestures. 

Maoileanach shifts in his seat as all attention is now focused on him. 

“Yesterday— before dismissal,” he begins slowly, looking deeply uncomfortable, “I was...informed that Lieutenant Levy has spoken to Commander Mitchell just the day prior, about concerns that he was not... capable... of continuing his training in the Top Gun program.” He hesitates and glances at Maverick with a hint of apology. “Commander Mitchell dismissed those concerns on the spot without further inquiry.”

At first Maverick can only stare at him in shock. Then realization dawns and he turns disbelieving eyes upon Iceman, forgetting even his anger under the terrible blinding clarity of betrayal. _Traitor!_ Traitor—

But Iceman too is wearing a surprised expression as he looks between Westford and Maoileanach. Viper makes as if to speak, but Westford beats him there.

“Is this true, Lieutenant Commander Mitchell?”

Maverick draws in a choked breath and looks at Viper.

“Answer the question,” Viper says quietly, after a heartbeat.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. His tongue suddenly doesn’t know how to form words. The silence strains before him like the pull before a tsunami. Everyone’s waiting, watching.

“...Yes,” he manages at last.

The room immediately breaks out into a fresh wave of whispers. Maverick struggles not to sink down into his seat with the weight of a thousand accusing stares burning blatantly into his skin. He thinks this must be how witches feel when they’re tied to the stake.

“And is it true,” asks Westford, the hard chill of his voice cutting easily through the commotion, “that you dismissed Levy’s concerns, which he brought before you of his _own_ initiative, after a severe display of underperformance unbefitting of Top Gun standards?”

“Yes. But I wasn’t—”

“And you did not take any action whatsoever, such as reporting Levy’s doubts, or pulling him from future hops until the issue of his confidence could be resolved?”

“No, but—”

“That’s enough!” Viper slaps a hand down on the table, making everyone jump. He turns towards Westford. “This isn’t a kangaroo court. Say what you’re trying to say, and get on with it.”

“Nonfeasance,” says Westford coldly, turning an unlit cigar between his fingers. 

Maverick’s head goes blank. He wants to laugh, but there’s something in his throat preventing him from making any sound at all.

“We aren’t shrink counsellors, sir,” Iceman speaks out suddenly, his voice calm but tight. Maverick has no idea why he’s even talking in the first place. “We aren’t even commissars. All we do is teach what we get and hope the lesson sticks. Armchair psychiatry falls a bit outside our job definition.”

“It’s outside your job definition to recognize when a pilot is unsuitable for flight?”

“It’s outside our _job definition_ ,” replies Iceman in a tone that befits his callsign, “to foresee an error made by another trained pilot in a high-risk environment in what amounts to a freak accident.”

“Funny though, isn’t it, how those freak accidents that we keep having would have been perfectly preventable if not for the actions of certain people, or the lack thereof.”

“What…” Maverick suddenly comes to and finds his voice again, stunned into protest. “Are you _accusing_ me of—”

Westford’s gaze upon him is hard and impersonal. “You have a record, Lieutenant Commander.” 

“You lying motherfucking bastard!” Maverick gasps out, lunging across the table, chair clattering out behind him. “I didn’t— It wasn’t me who—”

Iceman’s hands are immediately around him, twisting his biceps back and together as one would hold the wings of a chicken picked for slaughter. He fights back for a moment, channelling shame and anger into blind strength, but cannot get any leverage behind his struggles. From the corner of his vision, he thinks he sees Charlie spring to her feet, though nobody comes forth. 

Westford watches him impassively. Only his eyes belie his pitying disgust. 

“Enough,” Viper snaps again, standing up as well. This time the single word cracks like a whip in his face; Maverick goes limp at once, trembling in Iceman’s grip. Viper frowns at Maverick’s upturned chair. “Maverick, stand down. Lieutenant Levy has been under medical observation ever since the accident and isn’t due to be released until fifteen hundred today. May I ask when did you gentlemen get the chance to verify the conversation between Mitchell and Levy without having contact with him? ” 

Maoileanach winces. But Westford’s answer is cold and unperturbed. “I think one of the parties just gave pretty clear admission.”

“Mitchell is not the one under prime investigation,” Viper barks before Maverick could respond, obviously at the end of his patience. Maverick isn’t sure how much of that anger is directed at him. He shrinks back when Viper turns his eyes on him, only to bump against Iceman’s chest. The oppressive closeness makes him want to recoil and seek support at the same time. “Mitchell, provide a written report of what you said to Levy and I will talk to him about this myself. In the future, I expect all staff and officers—” he scours a sharp gaze around the room, resting perhaps a bit longer than necessary on Maverick and Westford and Maoileanach, “to conduct their speech and behaviour in a manner appropriate to status. Which means _no public accusations made on the basis of nothing but hearsay_. Am I clear on this?”

There’s a quiet murmur of agreement. Viper looks at Westford until the latter dips his chin in assent.

“Yes, Commander,” he murmurs without blinking.

“Then meeting adjourned,” Viper says coldly, and exits the room.

* * *

Iceman shoves Maverick straight into the fire exit stairwell.

“Fuck you—goddamn son of a bitch, let go of me!” Maverick squirms and writhes in his grasp, keeping up an endless string of obscenities that just seems to blow right past the guy and only serves to make his own throat burn. “Let go, let go! Fucking damn traitor, let me _go_ —” 

“Go where, go back so you can make even more of a fool of yourself than you already are?” Iceman retorts scathingly, releasing him with a final shove that nearly makes him land on his face. “And how the hell am _I_ a traitor?”

“You were there when Magpie was talking to me! They didn’t get it from Magpie himself, so who else could it be? I fucking trusted you, but you turn around and snitched straight to Maoileanach...”

His voice trails off as he realizes something else. That day by their office…

Iceman must have been thinking along the same thing, because he rolls his eyes. “There were _four_ people there that day, Mitchell. Blame the kiss-ass, if you really want to take it out on someone.” He stops and tilts his head, genuine puzzlement in his eyes. “Why’d you think it was me? What good would I get for selling you?”

“I don’t know. First response probably. You’re a snitching pain in the ass.” Maverick offers a tentative smile, just the slightest hint of an apology, then sighs, bracing his arms on the stair railing. “I don’t know,” he admits again, tiredly. “I’ve reacquainted with a few too many people today. Maoileanach I can get behind, he covered my hop yesterday and probably wants to shift the blame. But Westford— before this morning I never knew he hated me so much. I don’t even understand. What good would _he_ get for throwing me under the bus?”

Iceman’s silent for a minute. Then he joins Maverick at staring into the empty staircase below. “It was stupid. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Done what?”

“Barge into Viper’s office and put Westford on the spot like that. You won’t make many friends by embarrassing people, especially a superior officer.”

Maverick whirls on him in disbelief. “What? How can you be taking _his_ side? Didn’t you hear the things he said? He was fucking saying everything’s my fault— I never did anything to him—”

“You were eavesdropping,” Iceman points out. “None of that was said— or meant to be said— to your face. The whole point of having that private meeting was to keep the discussion, you know, _private_.” He sighs at Maverick’s murderous expression and holds up his hands. “Look, you don’t get why Westford wants you out, I’m trying to enlighten you. He doesn’t—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Maverick mutters, turning to leave. He’s exhausted and fed up.

Iceman grabs his wrist and pulls him around until he’s trapped between himself and the railing.

“No,” he snaps, face and voice suddenly austere. “These are things you should know. Christ, had you taken the trouble to figure this out before then you might have saved yourself and Viper a lot of grief today. You aren’t a student anymore, Mitchell, the lone wolf stuff doesn’t work. You can’t just not care about anything outside your own problems and expect others to wipe your ass for you every time you take off on a whim or feel like offending someone. So get your act straight, and for once in your damn life _listen._ ”

His words cut like knives over an old injury, bringing forth the blood of fresh doubts and old hurts. Maybe Iceman’s right. Maverick really _had_ never cared anything about offending anyone, superior officer or no, even back when Goose was still here, because he was always too confident of the irreplaceability of his own flying skills, and, perhaps, something in his subconsciousness always knew and expected that Viper would cover for him. But now— how could he explain that he can’t find the energy to care anymore? Yet the very nature of his apathy has now become the source of the waywardness of his behaviour; he can’t even _not care_ without becoming a burden on someone else. It all feeds back into one vicious cycle. 

The shame returns full force to churn in the pit of his stomach, compounded by a horrible feeling of despair. He lowers his eyes in defeat, blinking hard and looking away.

“Alright,” he whispers. “Tell me.”

Iceman releases Maverick’s wrist and paces a few steps across the narrow landing, running a hand through his hair. Then he stops and turns around. 

“First of all, Westford’s got perfect reason to hate you. Doesn’t matter if you never did him wrong, doesn’t matter if you don’t know him. You fucking exist. He’s the XO of the program who gets the brunt of dealing with the Navy. This incident’s got the Navy on our backs like the devil, and he’s stuck smack in the middle of it. With Levy pretty much busted and Treston in the condition he’s in, guess who they’re hounding on in third place? You. You have a _goddamned hell_ of a reputation, _Maverick_ , and believe me it doesn’t win any favours with anybody, especially not with Westford, who’s dealing with pressure on three sides what with the Navy and the press and Viper, and you have just become a major pain in his ass. So naturally he wants to kick you out. Now these things could have been settled in private, just between him and Viper— but you just had to barge in, and made him lose face in front of you, in front of all of us, and when you combine that with years of dissent of serving under a younger man with the exact same qualifications, then of course you get—”

Maverick gapes at him. “What the hell, so I’m supposed to feel sorry for the bastard? Like I— this is all warranted? What’s your fucking point?”

Iceman slaps the railing in exasperation. “The point is, Mitchell, there’s such things as consequences. You can’t just go throwing yourself headfirst into every situation you get all righteous at and expect to go your own way afterwards; you do something, it has an effect on someone else, if that someone else doesn’t like it, then congratulations you’ve just made yourself an enemy! Viper might back you, but there’re limits to the sort of things he can protect you from. Forging a med leave is easy. But that talk you had with Magpie, even if you didn’t think of telling Viper yourself, which I don’t get why not, that should _never_ have been brought public, you understand? Now that it’s out, Viper can’t pretend that it didn’t happen. He can’t even downplay it, not after the way Westford pointed his finger. Jesus Christ Mitchell. It might not have come to this, had you just _walked past the damn door_.”

“So basically what you’re saying,” says Maverick slowly, every word practically thrumming with rage, “is that this is all my fault. I brought this upon myself, what I should have done was lie down and let that fucking bastard walk all over me, and none of this would have happened—”

“What I’m _trying_ to say is that you could have handled things with a bit more finesse, or at least some modicum of maturity,” Iceman snarls. “Such as speaking to Viper in private, and _keeping_ everything private. Or at least make an attempt at it. But no, you’d rather punch—”

Maverick’s punch landed square on his shoulder.

It would have landed on his jaw, if Iceman hadn’t sidestepped in time. Iceman’s pupils go wide in fury and he retaliates at once, catching his next blow and using the momentum to swing him around and push him into the railing, pinning him there with an arm behind his back. Maverick kicks out backwards, but Iceman shoves in between his legs and twists his left wrist, viciously.

Maverick yelps and stops moving. He’s draped face down across the second floor landing railing, staring into the darkened staircase below with Iceman pressing on his back and the thin crossrail digging into his stomach, and contemplates that he might be experiencing his first taste of acrophobia in his life. He wonders if Iceman means to push him down.

“I think,” says Iceman right by his ear, with a tone that would have been perfectly conversational if he wasn’t currently squishing the air out of Maverick with his weight, “that was a perfect illustration of the point I was making. Weren’t you just trying to have a go at Westford like this? He would have made mincemeat out of you.”

Maverick makes a noise of protest and squirms against his pressure. Iceman levers his arm up and twists his wrist again, and this time the sharp bolt of agony that shoots up his arm and shoulder and chest is so bright that the world flashes white, flooding through his whole body like a hot, clear tide, all the way down to the most shameful depths. The gasp he makes is not purely from the pain.

Iceman lets him go and steps back. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he says with a hint of sourness. “Assaulting an officer would have been one more misconduct on top of everything else. Not that it’d make much of a difference at this point.”

Maverick turns around slowly and slides down to the floor with his back to the rails, cradling at his shoulder. Iceman watches him with narrowed eyes. Maverick leans his head back.

“So how fucked am I?” he asks quietly.

Iceman huffs out a dry laugh. “Honestly? I don’t know. Even if Viper can deal with Westford, the report you write’s still going to have to be submitted to court. It’s the sort of thing that could be nothing if nobody makes a big deal of it, or be blown out of proportions if someone really wants to see your blood. I think it would depend...”

He suddenly hesitates, and glances away, frowning at the wall. Maverick one-handedly pushes himself off the ground and goes over to him. “Depend on what?”

“Depend on Magpie,” Iceman says, and falls silent again.

“Magpie? But why would he...” 

Maverick stops. 

“Sometimes drowning men want to pull other people down with them,” Iceman murmurs.

“Drowning,” echoes Maverick.

Iceman turns a wry smile at him. “Involuntary manslaughter is still manslaughter. With the accidents being so frequent, I wouldn’t be surprised if they apply a heavier penalty as deterrence.”

Maverick takes a step back. The chill in the stuffy stairwell is abruptly unbearable. He feels dizzy, and his shoulder hurts in waves of pulsating throbs. He swipes a hand across the back of his uniform, and retracts it to a palmful of cold sweat. “He didn’t kill anyone.”

“Mitchell,” Iceman shakes his head. The name is halfway between a laugh and a tired sigh. 

He comes forward and reaches out. Maverick flinches, half expecting a blow, but all he does is rest a hand on his hurting shoulder and gently stroke him a little, touch light and tentative on the tender skin. The warmth of his hand chases away some of the chill, but it’s the gentleness that hurts the most, more than the blows or angry words, and Maverick quivers involuntarily, unable to move away nor reciprocate. 

“It’s not your fault,” Iceman says quietly, as if he could read Maverick’s mind. “Nobody could have foreseen what happened.”

“No,” Maverick whispers. The pale khaki of Iceman’s uniform swims in his vision. “Westford was right about one thing. I could have prevented it… If only I’d pulled him from the next hop.”

“Then there’ll be the next next hop, and the ones after. Unless you put them out of commission or something.” Iceman frowns. “This is ridiculous. Any other person would have done the same thing you did. _I_ would have done the same thing you did. Hell, I heard everything behind the door and didn’t think anything of it. You—” 

Maverick pulls away and turns back to stare down the stairwell. “You don’t understand.” _He didn’t come to you or any other person. He came to me._

“Alright,” Iceman sighs. “Suit yourself.” He straightens his shirt and turns for the door, only pausing when he sees that Maverick isn’t following. “Aren’t you coming? I have a ton of paperwork to do.”

“You go ahead,” Maverick says absently, really wanting nothing more than to sit and stare at nothing for a long long time. “I want to be alone for a while. Catch up later.”

Iceman starts to agree, but something abruptly sharpens in his gaze as he looks over Maverick again, following his sightline and back.

“Not here,” he says tersely. “Go wallow somewhere else.”

Maverick opens his mouth for a retort, then swallows it again. He studies Iceman carefully.

“Fine,” he snaps, heading downstairs without looking back. “I’ll go down to the hangar. Happy now?”

The only sound that answers him is the thud of the heavy fireproof door.


	9. Chapter 9

The first thing that Maverick notices when he enters their joint office is how weirdly bright it is. It’s not just something about the lighting—the lights are mostly off and it’s still raining pretty heavily outside— but it's a sort of openness, like an increase in space, which makes the whole place seem airier, bigger.

“What the hell...” he breathes, looking around the empty room.

Then the source of the change strikes him, and he is suddenly, absolutely, furious.

“Kazansky! Get over here and explain this, or I’m gonna kill you! ”

He spews out a colourful string of curses and smashes his thumb down to ring for an attendant when there’s no answer, repeating the act several times in quick succession. All that stands out in the room is the faint pattering of rain and a loose pile of papers on Iceman’s desk. The papers are plain white and completely blank, it’s only when he leans closer for a better look that he realizes they are all turned over.

A knock comes at the door.

“Commander Mitchell, sir?” queries the young orderly who had answered his call, looking breathless and dishevelled, like he’d run all the way here. “May I help you, sir?”

“Yes,” Maverick grits his teeth and jabs a finger at the glass wall dividing his office and Iceman’s. “I want to know what happened to the blinds over there. Which fucking son of a bitch took them down, and why.”

“The...blinds, sir?” The orderly radiates nervous confusion as he looks down at the end of Maverick’s finger. “I, um, think... I think the commander got them taken down early this morning, he probably wants them cleaned, or something...”

“ _Which commander?_ ” 

“Me,” says Iceman, striding into the room, a folder in his hand. The orderly jerks his eyes to him in surprise. 

“You,” Maverick snarls.

“Yes, me,” Iceman repeats evenly. 

“You can’t do that—”

“Why not?” says Iceman. He waves a hand to dismiss the orderly. “I applied to get rid of them, and my application got approved. This place needs more light in here.”

“More light,” snarls Maverick. “And what about my privacy? So I’ve lost the right to even have my own space anymore? Can’t I get three seconds without you staring down my neck?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Mitchell.” The gaze that Iceman levers on him grows hard. “You’re in the fucking military. There’s no such thing as privacy.” He makes a visible effort to ease down a bit and shrugs. “’Sides, I let you have the bigger room, you can’t go hogging the windows too.”

Maverick bites his lip and stares at him, fuming with helpless indignation and a terrible rage that he has nowhere to vent. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Kazansky.”

“Think what you like,” Iceman replies dispassionately, seating himself behind the desk. He opens his folder and withdraws a few pages, then throws the rest to Maverick. “You should get on with that report.”

_‘I have a bad feeling about making it out of here.’_

_‘Don’t think I’m really cut out for it.’_

_‘If the problem is only a lack of confidence—’_

_‘I highly advise you to think this over.’_

Maverick slaps his report face-down on the table and buries his head in his hands. 

The whole thing had taken him less than ten minutes to write. It’s ridiculously short once boiled down to the bare speech, a scant two pages when transcripted down on paper. Every line, every word of the exchange is etched deep in his memory, impossible to forget even if he wants to. 

And he really really wants to.

But the clock is moving unbearably slowly, with still a couple more hours until the end of the day, which leaves him with way too much time to keep reliving the scene in his head. He has nothing else to do _—_ everything related to Magpie and Treston has been reassigned to Iceman, who’s working with as much efficiency as an octopus with eight hands. A neat pile of papers is by his right elbow and the finished ones are organized to the left. A few files are open in front of him, presumably for reference. Maverick compares the state of his desk to the cluttered mess that’s his own, complete with dirty cups and scrunched-up paper balls and even a withered apple core, and flips his report over again with an ever louder bang.

Iceman pauses and flicks a brief glance at him before resuming his work. Maverick glares at him angrily through the clear glass wall. The lack of privacy can work both ways. _Fucking control freak._

He looks at the clock again, then back out the window. The rain is heavier now, an incessant drumming veil that blocks out the world and sky in a cold misty grey. Sluices of water are running down the glass panes. He wants to open one to get some air, but decides that it’s not worth the effort to get up; it certainly won’t be worth the effort to explain to Iceman why he’s not acting like a normal human being. He sulks about the blinds again.

_‘Sometimes drowning men want to pull other people down with them.’_

Maverick startles up with a start, arm sore and pulse hammering. He’d drifted off without meaning to, and a telephone is ringing loudly in the background. 

Not his phone. Iceman’s, from the other office. He must have left the connecting door open.

Iceman picks up the phone. “Kazansky speaking.” His expression tightens after a few seconds. “I see.”

He’s silent for a long time after that, a pen turning slowly in his fingers, jotting down the occasional notes. Maverick’s heart suddenly drops to his feet, enfolded by a sense of nameless dread. It’s not the phone call itself _—_ Iceman’s been bombarded with an irritating number of them ever since they’d returned to office. But this one _—_

“Put it on speaker!” he gasps, springing out of his chair.

Iceman spares him a cursory glance and keeps talking. “...very unfortunate. Alright, I already have it ready… okay. And the CAR’s going to be assigned... Okay. My sincerest condolences.”

In a flash Maverick is wrenching back the glass door and in front of Iceman. The latter is just setting the receiver back onto the phone rack.

“What was _—_ ”

Iceman looks slowly up at Maverick. The pen in his hand stills, and falls to the desk with a faint clatter.

“Treston’s dead,” he says bluntly.

Maverick sways and closes his eyes.

“How?” he whispers.

“Heart failure _—_ or organ failure, something like that,” Iceman mutters, reaching over to press the bell. “Doesn’t make a difference on report. He was already in bad state when they brought him in. This time didn’t make it off the surgery table.” 

Maverick can only stare at him in numb shock, stunned both by the terrible news and the callous indifference of his attitude. Iceman sighs and looks at him, really _looks_ this time, and now Maverick could see the underlying tension, the strained lines of pressure in the corners of his eyes and mouth. He feels a twinge of guilt and turns away. The ground shifts beneath his feet.

“Did you _—_ ” Iceman begins. 

He doesn’t get the chance to finish before the orderly he’d rang for arrives at the door. Iceman calls for him to wait and starts to gather a bunch of files together; as he passes, a piece of paper protruding from the topmost file catches Maverick’s eye.

“Wait,” he hisses, grabbing Iceman’s arm.

CLAIM CERTIFICATION AND VOUCHER

He knows what the next words are. It’s a death gratuity application form. 

“You already gave him up for dead,” Maverick says, the numb realization swelling and growing into a cold burst of anger that chills him from the inside out and makes him want to scream. “All of you. These forms _—_ ”

Iceman evaluates him evenly for a moment, then withdraws himself from his hand and shoves him away before heading to the entrance.

“What did you think Viper meant when he said to get a head start on the paperwork, Mitchell?” he says over his shoulder, a touch of wry humour in his tone.

Maverick is left standing in the middle of the room, feeling as if he might throw up on Iceman’s perfectly organized desk. _What is a life to them, just one more number on a piece of paper?_

“It’s a red number on a business ledger, and not a pretty one at that,” says Iceman when he comes back, after sending the orderly off with the files and instructions. The weariness and frustration in his voice have finally broken through, exposing him as a man put under too much pressure and expected to deal with too much stuff in too short a time. “You, me, we’re all numbers in this big fucking shithole. What’s got your righteous tail in a twist again _now_ , Mitchell? Yes we got all the postmortem docs done before Treston actually died, so what? Are you thinking we did less than we could for him because of that? The hospitals _tried_ , they tried but it didn’t work, the doctors aren’t God— Now his family’s gonna get their entitled compensation _._ What else do you expect anyone to do?”

“Maybe I expected people to actually care.”

Iceman gives an incredulous laugh. “Giving condolences and working our asses off to clear up the incident that led to his death isn’t caring enough? We have to cry him a bucket as well? God you have some good moral standards.” He suddenly narrows his eyes, fixing Maverick with a hard gaze. “How much do you think _you_ care, anyway? I’m sorry to say this, but beating yourself up over some contrived guilt isn’t going to make Treston all teary-eyed on the other side, Mitchell. Maybe I missed something, but you two weren’t exactly best buddies when he was alive. Not like—” 

He clenches his jaw and catches himself before he could say the treacherous name.

“Not like what?” Maverick says softly, voice rising and rising as he stops caring if it breaks anymore. “Not like what, Kazansky? Go ahead and fucking say it, if you have the balls!”

A muscle twitches on the side of Iceman’s neck, and he glances away angrily.

“Why,” he says slowly, the effort at temper management painfully clear in every strained line of his voice and body, “does everything have to be so fucking personal to you?”

“I _knew_ him as a person,” whispers Maverick, all his explosive fury drained away with the outburst. “Not well, but...” He has to blink several times to clear his vision. Suddenly it occurs to him that he still doesn’t know Treston’s first name. “I knew him,” he repeats. He looks at Iceman, willing him to understand. “ _You_ knew him. And everyone else…”

“We all grieve for his loss,” Iceman says quietly. “It’s not— It isn’t something anyone would take lightly. But the world keeps spinning, you know? It’s enough to just say ‘ _I’m sorry for his death_ ’ and do what needs to be done and move on. You don’t owe him any more than that. Nobody does, except maybe Magpie. He made the error that killed Treston. Not you.”

“Thanks, that’s good to know,” says Maverick bitterly. He could tell by Iceman’s controlled exhale that the sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. He folds his arms against this chest and looks down at the clean-swept linoleum floor. “Every time that I think that things can’t get worse...”

Iceman surprises him with a brittle laugh. “Believe me, you haven’t seen worse.”

Maverick looks up, a spark of anger rekindling in his belly at the tone. “Yeah? Like what?”

Iceman grabs a handful of papers and slaps it against his other palm. “Like Magpie might take a bite out of you and not let go. Like Treston’s family might file for lawsuit against…” He shrugs. “People can get creative when they’re looking to displace blame. And get money.”

Maverick stares at him, frozen in place by mounting horror.

“Wrongful death, Mitchell,” Iceman sighs tiredly. “It’s a civil suit charge. Where’s your report? Viper better make sure Magpie doesn’t get enough material to bite on.”

Maverick stays standing there for a beat longer, digging his fingernails into his palm, then moves towards the door. The office is suddenly stifling.

“It’s on my desk,” he mutters, pushing past Iceman.

“Where are you going?” Iceman calls after him. 

He doesn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving up on chapter counts, they are only for people who actually know what they're writing


End file.
